


Desperate Measures

by detour



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Hallmark Movie, Holidays, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, M/M, home for the holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21879307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detour/pseuds/detour
Summary: Desperate to get home for the holidays, Bucky takes pilot Steve Rogers up on his offer of a ride. But that's only the start. Life keeps finding ways to throw them back together.Part of the Captain America Countdown to Christmas 2019.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 13
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

It’s kind of peaceful, flying domestic. Decorations everywhere, a holiday tree in the corner of the lobby, and Michael Bublé on the overhead. Of course, the last time Bucky flew he was headed to report on a hurricane, so maybe the difference is understandable. 

It’s appreciated, much like the man dressed like an oversized Tom Cruise, casually leaning against the window on his phone. Aviators, worn leather jacket, crisp white button down. Tom Cruise in _Top Gun_ _,_ Bucky thought at first, but maybe this is more _American Made._

Bucky’s next in line for the car rental concierge, shifting his tower of luggage inch by inch. One of the two bags he has slung across his shoulders has been digging into his neck for the past ten minutes, but he’s too afraid to adjust and make it worse. 

The woman behind the counter smiles automatically when Bucky shifts his luggage forward with his foot, but it’s worn around the edges. His empty sleeve hasn’t slipped out of his jacket pocket, though, so at least it isn’t a pity smile. 

“Hi, looking to rent a car for the weekend,” Bucky says, digging for his wallet in the side pocket of his bag. “Anything you’ve got is fine.” 

“Okay, thank you,” she says, typing something into the computer. “Did you book in advance?”

“I didn’t,” he frowns, giving into the urge to shift the heaviest bag. It does make it worse. “Your website says it had availability.” 

“Unfortunately we’re fully rented today,” she says. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I—okay,” Bucky cuts himself off before he can accuse her of not actually being sorry, breathing in deep before letting it out as a single steady exhale. Some might call it a sigh. “What are my options?” 

“There are no options, we’re fully rented,” she says

“Damnit,” Bucky says under his breath. This was not the trip home for Christmas he was hoping for. Right from the coffee he’d spilled getting out of his Uber — on himself — to the flight delay to now, too late to rent the car that’s supposed to get him the rest of the way home. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says again, and Bucky thinks that this time she means it. 

Bucky nudges his luggage tower back out of the way, accidentally making eye contact with the unfairly attractive guy still standing by the window. 

“Wait,” the man says, sliding his aviators off and into the neck of his white shirt. “You need a ride?” 

“Oh, Steve,” the woman behind the counter says. “You’re still here.” 

“Oh, shit,” Bucky says, because he knows that face. Not well, but well enough. Moved into Bucky’s hometown a decade ago, Bucky screwed up his order at the family diner the few times he was around to serve, and it’s been awkward the few times their paths have crossed since. 

“Where are you going?” Steve asks, sliding up to the counter beside the stack of luggage. He reaches out with one hand to pat the top of it. “And it's for a while?” 

“Evergreen,” Bucky says, resisting the urge to explain away his bags. “The one in Indiana.”

“No way,” Steve says, smiling without an ounce of recognition. “That’s exactly where I’m going. You’ll have to come with me.”

“No, I’m good,” Bucky says even as he’s telling his mouth they really, really aren’t good. He’s actually pretty desperate. 

“You’re coming home with me,” Steve says firmly, then reaches to grab Bucky’s top-most bag, managing it easily despite the weight. He goes to grab the next, but Bucky puts out his hand to stop him. 

“Honestly, I’ll figure it out,” Bucky says. “Call my sister.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve says and lifts the next bag, again effortlessly. “I know you want to be, but this is happening.”

Bucky closes his mouth on another empty refusal and grabs the last bag before Steve can. “Fine, but I’m paying for gas.” 

“I will not hold you to that,” Steve says. “I’m Steve, obviously.”

“Bucky,” Bucky says shortly. He should be glad Steve doesn’t remember him or the diner screwups, but instead he feels kind of insulted that he’s that forgettable. He tells himself he doesn’t care and turns to head towards short term parking. 

“No, we’re going this way,” Steve says, and leads the way back into the airport. 

* * *

“This is not what I had in mind,” Bucky says, over the sound of the Cessna’s engine. He should be happy he’s given up the weight of his bags, now stowed in the small plane’s hold, but that anxiety’s been replaced by something a little more pressing — the idea of an hour in a small space with Steve Rogers. 

“I’m full of surprises,” Steve says. He’s focused on the instrument panel, taking note of the readings before he turns to look at Bucky. “You sure you won’t be happier with that in the back?”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, adjusting his hold on the camera bag he’d insisted on keeping with him. 

“Sure,” Steve says, somewhat doubtfully. He drops the headset onto his head, adjusting the mouthpiece. “Just hang on.”

“Ha,” Bucky says, tightening his fingers on the side anyway and waits for the inevitable questions. 

But Steve doesn’t say anything about Bucky’s missing arm, just flips over to talk to the tower to get takeoff clearance. It gives Bucky a chance to study the side of his face, the angle of his jaw. Steve Rogers has always been kind and good-looking and completely unattainable. Knowing he’s playing rescuer here while also flying a plane? It’s driving Bucky up the wall. 

Steve looks over, catching Bucky’s eyes and smiling. “You ready to go home?”

Bucky shrugs, and like that they’re making their way down the stretch of runway and into the air. Shorter takeoff time than flying commercial, but way more bumps. He braces his feet against the floor of the plane and breathes out slowly as they ascend. 

It’s not the first time Bucky’s been in a small aircraft, but Steve’s presence seems to take up more space than it should. Bucky makes a point of staring straight ahead, out of the windscreen, hoping for a quiet flight since he doesn’t trust his ability to string coherent sentences together. 

_Steve_ is a talker, apparently, flipping his channel over as soon as they’re clear in the air and on their way to Evergreen. It’s general commentary on the fields they’re flying over, stuff that only requires a noncommittal yep or uh huh once in a while. 

It’s easy to settle in, even when it starts snowing lazily a few minutes into the flight. Steve doesn’t comment so neither does Bucky, and ten minutes go by like this. It’s long enough that Bucky’s relaxing his grip on his camera bag and settling into his seat. 

It can’t last, and when Steve looks sideways at him Bucky knows it’s over. He sighs. 

“I’ve got to ask you something,” Steve says. He’s wearing the aviators again, but given that Bucky’s still not used to his face the barrier is welcome. 

“Yeah, alright,” Bucky says, thinking of the worst questions Steve could ask him, starting with why Bucky screwed up his orders at the family diner so often to why he was coming home for the first time in years.

“So why would you fly into a regional airport anyway?” 

“Well, it was cheaper,” Bucky says — which is true, but not when he adds in the fees for extra baggage. The real reason? It was easier to manage in a smaller airport. 

“Plus I don’t mind the drive,” Bucky adds when Steve doesn’t look like he’s buying it. 

“It’s like four hours if you’re lucky,” Steve says. He nods his head to the ground they're passing. “And you’re from New York, aren’t you, do you even remember how to do it properly?”

“Of course I do,” Bucky says. He drove enough on assignment, through worse conditions than the softly falling snow around them. 

“No, they made me take a class when I got here,” Steve says. “Made me swear to keep any other city folk off the roads.”

“Folks,” Bucky snorts, ignoring the delighted look Steve gives him. “I’d remember well before I got back here.” 

“Can’t be trusted,” Steve says. “I made an oath.” 

“You’re full of shit,” Bucky says. It feels aggressive in the small space, but Steve still laughs. 

“You know who says they don’t mind driving? People who don’t drive,” Steve says. “I used to say that too, before realizing I had to drive everywhere.” 

“It’s a good time to clear my head,” Bucky says, because you don’t come back from a shoot covering a natural disaster expecting to find out the magazine closed your division, and then keep rolling on. 

“Hopefully this view isn’t too bad of a trade off,” Steve says, and points out what he claims is a llama farm even if Bucky can’t tell the difference. 

He fills the rest of the ride with stories about people from town, updates about who moved out and who came back, babies born and weddings. Steve is surprisingly in the know for someone who didn’t grow up there. 

By the time they’re coming up on the winding road Bucky recognizes as the east way into town, the sky is a wash of grey. It’s eerie, neither dark nor light, but Steve just slides his aviators into his shirt like this happens all the time. The weather is so much more present here, sitting up front. 

“This isn’t ideal,” Steve says casually, and flips his radio to call the tower for the tiny Evergreen outpost. 

Bucky would have said it’s bad, so maybe it’s not as awful as it looks. 

The other end of the radio comes in right away, and Steve mentions a few numbers — probably altitude, speed and wind — all of which keeps Bucky in the dark. 

The plane’s nose angles down and then it feels like they drop, Steve concentrating all the while. It steadies; Steve gradually shifts them into a descent. Then a pair of runways appear below in an x formation, one with a freshly plowed strip down the middle. 

“Jackpot,” Steve mumbles to himself, making landing feel just as easy as takeoff. It drives home how much he has his shit together compared to Bucky’s current status of major fuckup. 

They slow to a stop on the runway, Steve giving the handoff to the other end of the radio before taxiing slowly towards the steel sided hanger up ahead. One door stands open, lights blazing in the falling evening.

Steve pulls the plane into a quarter loop so they’re facing away from the hanger again before killing the throttle. He flexes his hands a little, the only sign that the landing was an effort. 

“You can get out here, the main building’s right over there,” Steve says, pointing at a simple wooden structure with plenty of windows. “I’ll finish up with the plane and unload your luggage.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, gesturing at the terminal. “Will they have a number for a cab I can call?”

“Those won’t be running, not at this time of day,” Steve says, as if it’s not just past five o’clock. “Sam or I can drive you to town once we’re done here.” 

About to protest again, Bucky stops his stupid mouth. If it wasn’t so close to dinner rush, he could call his sister at the diner for a ride. As is, he’s better off waiting. 

“Go inside before you freeze, we won’t be long,” Steve says. “There’s a fireplace. And free wifi!” He says that like it’s an actual perk, not something that should be standard. 

“Right,” Bucky says, telling his city side to shut up and gets out of the plane. 

The wind is picking up, blowing the flakes of snow around his face and trickling down the neck of his sweater. It is cold out, but not as bad as he expected. 

In contrast, the reception area at the airport is completely expected: a lot of buffalo plaid and pine. The furniture looks like it was stolen from a hunting lodge, full of worn-in charm that’s offset by the professionally hung cedar boughs and strings of lights. 

Setting his camera bag down on one of the couches, Bucky digs out his phone for the promised free wifi. He has to go through the agreement screen to get access, waiting a good fifteen seconds before he lands on the airport’s website. It doesn’t load properly, and he wastes a refresh before realizing that no, it’s supposed to look that way. Bucky sits down to take in the sheer 90s feel that was replicated in 2016, according to the footer.

It has an out-of-focus picture of the airport that’s so far removed he isn’t sure it’s the same building. There’s the name of the airport, Evergreen Municipal, and a line about a flight school. For that, nothing but a grainy shot of one of the better looking planes on the tarmac. It’s no wonder Bucky barely even remembered Evergreen had an airport. 

He flips over to his email, where the wifi promptly craps out. He refreshes, disconnects and reconnects, and puts his phone away when he gets nothing. 

Faced with the uncertainty of how long it actually takes to put a plane away, he unzips his camera bag instead. His camera still has photos from his last shoot, from the extra day he spent looking for the best shot of the protest’s aftermath only for it to go unused. 

He ignores the replay to frame the decorations in the viewfinder, capturing the lush green and the flash of red ribbon, the pine boards behind it all. Not bad, not his best. More like a background for a Christmas social media post.

He looks up from the camera when someone comes in, frowning when it’s clearly not Steve. 

“Sam,” Sam says, gesturing to himself. He’s also good looking, in a sleeker way than Steve — for all that he’s wearing a bulky red knit sweater. 

Bucky’s long gotten over people watching him work, using his stump to brace the camera steady. It made him better in some countries, people coming up to him to volunteer information like he wasn’t there to do work. So Bucky just raises his eyebrows when Sam doesn’t say anything, just assesses him with an indiscernible look. 

“Steve’s just doing some paperwork, said he’d be done in a minute,” Sam says. 

“Alright,” Bucky says, bringing the camera down to his side. “Thanks.” 

Sam nods and grabs a jacket from the coat rack, sliding it on as he heads to the door on the front side of the building. 

“Don’t let him wait too long, it’s going to get worse out there.” There’s a blast of cold air when Sam lets himself out.

Turning to his camera again, Bucky looks for a shot that feels more like him, somewhere between the hyperrealism of photojournalism and artificial construction of stock photography. 

* * *

“So is that what had you babysitting your bag?” Steve asks, startling Bucky from his inspection of the ceiling’s wooden beams through his viewfinder. 

He lowers the camera, turns. Steve’s leaning against the doorframe, more casual now in a grey cable knit over the button down. 

“The camera,” Steve says when Bucky doesn’t respond. 

Bucky raises it in acknowledgement. “Kind of my livelihood.”

Steve makes a face. “Hope you aren’t wasting space on your SD card with this old place.” 

“It’s rustic,” Bucky says, encompassing everything from the church-like ceiling to the floors to the arched windows that run patterned down both sides of the building. 

“It’ll look great on your Instagram,” Steve says, like he knows Bucky’s secret account on there, then gestures towards the office Sam had closed up before he left. “I’m going to bring the truck around if you’re ready?”

“Great,” Bucky says, and goes to put his camera away. His other bags are still standing by the door, so he goes there to wait for Steve.

But Steve comes back in from behind him, flakes heavy on the top of his head and the shoulders of the wool coat he was wearing.

“Some bad news,” Steve says. “The snow got worse.”


	2. Chapter 2

It is worse, drifting around the front end of Steve’s truck and making soft but significant hills in what had been the parking lot. 

“We can just wait it out here,” Steve says. “This isn’t like New York snow.” 

“You don’t say,” Bucky says flatly. “I have left the city before. I’ve seen real snow.”

“Yeah, you did that whole thing in Alaska, with the bears?” Steve says, hanging his coat back onto the rack and stepping behind the reception desk to rummage through cabinets. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, because he did go up for that, but how would Steve know. It resulted in a sparse article on the magazine’s website with a few captions the staff writer built from Bucky’s photo log. 

“I liked it,” Steve says simply. He comes back with blankets, a jug of water and a bulk-sized box of protein bars. “Well, it’s not ideal, but we’ll survive. We might even have some cans of soup in the break room.”

“This is fine, thanks,” Bucky says. He’s had worse. 

“Actually, I bet we do,” Steve says, setting the supplies down and heading into the break room.

Bucky debates following him, telling him it really doesn’t matter, but the crow of success Steve makes is enough to keep him there. 

“I hope you like tomato,” Steve calls out. “We also have chicken noodle — are you vegan?” 

Bucky doesn’t respond, picking up one of the protein bars to look at it. Should have known that this is what Steve keeps in the office. 

“Hey, I’m going to heat these up.” Steve reappears in the doorway, holding a can of soup in each hand. “Any preferences?” 

“Not chicken,” Bucky says, dropping the protein bar and following Steve into the small break room. There’s enough room two chairs at the small table, but not much else. 

Steve gets to work with the can opener, dumping contents into two mismatched bowls on the counter. “So was I right? You’re vegan?”

“Pescatarian,” Bucky corrects, sitting in a chair to watch Steve work. “I’ll eat fish, just no meat.”

“So close,” Steve says. He slides the bowls into the microwave and turns to lean against the counter. 

“So you get snowed in often?” Bucky asks, leaning back in the chair. “You have this down to a science.”

“Ha,” Steve says, shrugging. “I sometimes just stay here overnight, like when I have an early booking.”

“So you haul freight?” Bucky asks Steve’s back as he turns to check on the soup. 

“Mostly,” Steve says. “Cheaper to get a lot of the supplies we need up here directly by flight. Then there’s the flight school on the side.”

“You like it here,” Bucky says. 

“I do,” Steve says, sounding surprised at the observation. “Is that a problem?”

“I just didn’t think of it that way,” Bucky says. “That someone chooses to live here.”

“Lots do,” Steve says. He sets his bowl down on the table and nods at Bucky to start eating. “Your parents for one.” 

“My grandparents had the diner first.” 

“But your mom could’ve said no, thanks, gone somewhere else.” Steve says. “People do that.” 

“Sure,” Bucky says except it wasn’t likely. His mom married a man who loved cooking. The diner was in their blood. 

“You’ll have to see downtown tomorrow,” Steve says, changing the subject abruptly like he could tell Bucky was done talking about it. 

“Right, the Christmas lights thing.” 

“The thing,” Steve says with mock offence. “The parade of lights is a time honoured tradition. It’ll be good this year.”

They finish the last bites in silence, Steve washing up the dishes before they head back into the main space. Steve lights the fireplace to get a bit more warmth in the room before tossing blankets onto each of the couches, saying it’s warmer here than in the offices. 

There’s a weird half-light outside from the light posts in the parking lot, making the room feel closed off from the snow still swirling outside. 

“Huh,” Bucky says, eyeing the weather as Steve tends to the fire. “Guess this isn’t letting up anytime soon.”

“There’s a streamer, it won’t be forever,” Steve says. “Want to play a game?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, so Steve takes out Scrabble and sets it up on the low table between the couches.

They play, making conversation about their favourite things to eat at the diner and holiday traditions. Talking to Steve is easy. It’s both better than getting to know the journalist assigned to stories with him and worse because the more Bucky gets to know Steve, the more he likes him. 

After the second round, Steve says they should turn in. The weather’s not getting better anytime soon. It’s still early, but if it clears up overnight like Steve says, they can leave anytime in the morning. 

Of course, that’s if they could sleep. Bucky finds himself staring at the ceiling, trying to make out the shapes of the wooden beams to count them in the flickering firelight, anything but focusing on the way he can hear Steve breathing a few feet away. 

There's a respectable space between their separate couches, but Bucky hasn’t slept in the same room as someone for a long time. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Steve mumbles after Bucky rolls over again. “Stop it.” 

“Sorry,” Bucky says, sighing. 

“I get it,” Steve says. “Unfamiliar place, not where you thought you’d be tonight, so close and yet so far.” 

“Probably would be in the ditch if I had my way, driving that rental,” Bucky says. 

“There’s that,” Steve says. He yawns loudly, then turns towards Bucky. The firelight plays off his face, highlighting every pleasing angle. “So how’s New York? I remember if being tightly wound.”

Shrugging against the couch cushion, Bucky gives him that. “It’s about the same as that.” 

Steve makes a thoughtful noise. “I thought I’d miss it more. I mean, coming here to help my mom, that was an easy decision, but it was my home.”

“And now this is?”

“Yeah, it really is. Smaller, sure, but I like that.” 

“Better to stay in people’s business,” Bucky says, hiding his smile.

“Hey,” Steve says, leaning up on one elbow. “That’s a small town cliche.” 

Bucky turns to look at Steve, openly smirking. “You pretended not to recognize me in the airport, only to be completely aware of who I was the entire time.” 

“Well,” Steve says and flops down onto his back again. “That was an error in judgement.” 

“I’ll forgive you,” Bucky says benevolently, rewarded when Steve burst out laughing. 

“I couldn’t decide what would be more awkward, saying I knew you or not.” Steve wipes his hand over his face, pressing his fingers against his eyes. 

“For me or for you?”

“Me, definitely,” Steve says, moving his hands aside to look at him. “Speaking as the weird guy who knows too much about you.” 

“Well I’m aware of that now,” Bucky says.

“And?” Steve prompts. 

“Yeah, you are weird.” Among other things Bucky leaves unsaid. It’s bad enough they’re teasing by firelight, he doesn’t need to read into this. 

Steve laughs. “Not the worst thing I’ve been called.” 

“Me either,” Bucky says. “Probably heard worse walking to my apartment.”

“Another thing I don’t miss,” Steve says. “Never being allowed to be alone.”

“It’s not so bad,” Bucky says, then sighs. He hates the noise, the smells, the garbage. How expensive everything is. “Other than the fact it feels like I’m fighting with it — and I don’t know that I want to anymore.”

“Yeah, that sounds like New York all right,” Steve says. He pushes the blanket down a bit, enough to pull an arm up to rest behind his head. “So you came home to get away?” 

“Sort of,” Bucky says, pulling his eyes away from the curve of Steve’s bicep on display. The other part is that he doesn’t have a job to go back to, but he keeps that to himself. 

“Whatever it is,” Steve says, and falls quiet. 

There’s no pressure to continue that line of conversation, so neither of them do. A comfortable silence stretches between them. 

“So what made you help me,” Bucky asks into the lull. 

“Why not,” Steve says simply. 

“Seriously though,” Bucky says, turning on his side to face Steve.

“Seriously, why not.” Steve meets Bucky’s eyes in the dark. “I had the power to help, so I did.” 

“That’s it, no ulterior motive.” 

“Really not,” Steve says, shrugging. “I like to think we’re put into positions sometimes where just being us, having certain skills or knowledge, can make a difference. Like you needed a ride, I could offer it. Maybe just without the snowstorm.”

“Sure,” Bucky says, rubbing his jaw with his thumb. “Wish I could think like that.”

“Start right now,” Steve says. “You’re here. Pay attention and you’ll notice space where you fit.”

Bucky doesn’t respond to that, just thinks about whether it’s possible. If there’s something he can help Steve with beyond what Bucky himself wants to help himself to. But he’s messed up, doesn’t stand a chance. Not with Steve clearly rooted here and Bucky unsure of his next step.

He sighs, and Steve must take that as a sign Bucky’s sleeping, because he whispers goodnight and turns over. 

* * *

Bucky wakes up first the next morning, suddenly awake without deciding to be. It’s unnaturally bright in the room, open and exposed where it wasn’t the night before. He sits up, squints out the window. The sunlight’s bouncing off the fresh drifts and washing the interior of the airport with light. 

Steve is still asleep on the couch beside him. He must live a stress free life because the lines of his face in sleep aren’t that much different being awake. 

Pushing the blankets off, Bucky sets his socked feet on the ground and is startled to find it actually still warm. Whatever fire Steve built last night must have been a good one. 

“Well look at that,” Steve says, sounding more awake than he should for a night spent on a couch. “It stopped snowing.”

“Snowed a lot though,” Bucky says, wandering over to the door that looks out into the parking lot. Steve’s truck is fairly drifted in. 

“Well, here’s breakfast,” Steve says, bouncing a protein bar against Bucky’s back. “You make the coffee, I’ll find the snow boots.”

Getting the truck out is a team effort, Steve with the shovel and Bucky doing his best in a pair of too-big boots and an oversized snow brush. He’s borrowing scarf, hat and glove too, trying not to think too much about Steve taking care of him. 

Steve has his aviators back on, working in the blinding reflection of the sun when it hits the snow the wrong way. Despite all this, it isn’t long before they’ve cleared up and are loading into the truck for town. 

The roads are fairly clear now, spots of bare asphalt showing through where tire tracks have broken up the snow cover. It doesn’t feel too bad for slippery either, or else Steve is handling it really well. 

They’re down the hill and at the diner in no time at all. Steve unloads Bucky’s stuff from the back of the truck and heads right to the back of the diner. 

“You’ve been here before,” Bucky says, holding the door as Steve brings in the bags. Most people didn’t know about the space behind the diner they used as an office. 

“My mom did a stint as a waitress when the bookstore was slow,” Steve says. “Felt like dinners out back were the only time I saw her.” 

“Was she a better server than me?” Bucky asks, only half joking. 

“Yes,” Steve says immediately. “You were awful.”

Bucky  _ was _ awful, always too preoccupied with Steve when he came in to do his job properly. 

“Well this is cozy,” Bucky's sister says when she comes in. “Strangers and family, all at the same time.”

“Becca,” Bucky says, and sweeps her in for a hug. 

“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” Becca says, then drops her gaze to his pile of bags. “What, are you moving back home?”

Bucky laughs awkwardly, feeling himself flush. Steve looks sideways at him, but thankfully stays quiet about it. 

“So anyway,” Bucky says. 

“I bet my mom is here,” Steve says, a not-so-subtle attempt at cutting the tension, and disappears into the diner to check. 

Bucky looks at Becca at Steve’s comfort with the place. 

“He’s practically family at this point,” Becca says. “Come on, mom and dad will want to know you’re here.” 

Over the next few hours, Bucky gets swept up into family and the usual hustle of the diner. He thinks he sees Steve’s mom at one point, and barely remembers to thank Steve for going above and beyond before he’s put to work. In the back, of course, because he’s so rusty he’d just embarrass them doing service. 

It’s not what he thought of when he was coming home, but this is exactly what he needed. To get swept up into the familiar routine without being able to think about what led him here. 

They close the diner around 4, holding it open late since it feels like the entire town has to come in to hear about Bucky’s return from the big city. He doesn’t have the heart to correct anyone, even when his mom goes on for the fourth time about his tiny walkup that’s barely as big as the diner’s kitchen! 

His parents’ house is fully decorated outside, wreaths hung on the door and an oversized red ribbon on the basketball net above the garage. The freshly fallen snow blankets the yard and the top of the tire swing, making it feel like a shot in a holiday movie.

“Sickening, isn’t it,” Becca asks, but she winks because when they go inside, it’s just as bad. They have garlands on the staircase. It’s practically Santa’s workshop. 

With his stuff brought up to his childhood bedroom, Bucky returns to sit by the fireplace with the family in all of their cable-knit, slippered glory. Whatever’s in the slow cooker smells good, making him realize that the protein bar from this morning was a long time ago. 

His stomach growls in agreement, making Becca laugh. “You don’t eat when you’re not home?” 

“Just this protein bar earlier,” Bucky says. “Tasted like garbage.” 

“I honestly don’t know how Steve survives on those things,” Becca says. “I mean, he usually grabs lunch with us unless he’s flying, but still.” 

“He, ah, he comes around often?” Bucky asks, going for casual but knowing he isn’t landing it. 

“Oh, he’ll probably come around more often now,” Becca says, cackling when he frowns at her. 

“Oh, he’s helping you with the carnival, right?” Bucky’s mom says, completely missing the rest of the conversation. 

“Yeah,” Becca says, eyes on Bucky. “He’s been great.” 

“Wait, you’re on the carnival committee this year?” Bucky asks. It’s run solely by local volunteers, mostly business owners invested in the tourism aspect. No Barnes has been involved for at least a couple of years, so Becca’s participation seems natural. 

“More like I am the carnival committee,” Becca says. “Two of the usual volunteers had babies or their kids had babies, which means I’m doing way more than the coordinator did last year.”

“That has to be fun, right?”

“So I tell myself,” she says. “Come on, take a look at my vision.” 

They move over to what used to be their shared homework table, now home to a pile of papers about this year’s winter’s night carnival. There are a lot of string lights and oversized scrabble letters, standing out against the white, gold and green colour swatches. 

“Mom and dad’s doesn’t fit this scheme,” Bucky says mildy. 

“Don’t get me started,” she says, waving her hand around the room. “They were the first to know!”

“So is this why the airport was so decked out?”

“Steve was pretty excited about being asked to work with me on this,” she says. “He’s doing the portion around businesses, helping them decorate to theme. You should check it out tomorrow, it’s going to be beautiful.”

Bucky nods his head. He doesn’t have anything better to do. “So Friday, that’s when you light it up?” 

“We’ve been adding places in as we go, but the official parade and cookie competition is Friday.”

“Who are you,” Bucky says. 

She pokes him in the arm and makes a face. “You live in a small town, this is what you do. You’ll remember soon enough.”

“Is that a warning?” Bucky asks, only half-joking. 

She doesn’t answer, just smiles at him. 

* * *

At the diner the next day, Bucky gets control of the grill for around twenty minutes while his father ducks out to buy a present for his wife. It’s relaxing, falling back into the rhythms and recipes he’s known since he was sixteen and begging for the chance to prove himself. 

He hears Becca greet Steve out in the diner, making him grateful he’s only on the grill for a short time — not long enough to wreck another order because he isn’t paying attention. 

After he’s released from coverage, he comes out to the dining room. Becca and Steve are deep in conversation at her table, looking at some of the papers for the carnival. Bucky hesitates, not wanting to interrupt, but Steve looks up and breaks out into a warm smile that practically has Bucky blushing. 

“It just feels like everything that can go wrong is,” Becca’s telling Steve. “To have someone out with a broken wrist now — you can’t possibly put in any more time than you already are.”

“We’ll make it work,” Steve says, like out of sheer will he can make it so. “We’ll find somebody who’s just waiting to help.”

Bucky flashes back to their overnight confessional, but it doesn’t feel like Steve was digging at him. “Is that my cue?” 

“Oh, it could have been, couldn’t it?” Steve asks him, and then turns back to Becca. “Bucky’s going to help out.” 

“Really?” Becca says, eyebrows shooting up with surprise. “I mean, that’s amazing!”

“Apparently,” Bucky says, but feels relaxed about it. It’s his choice to get involved, join the Christmas committee. 

“This is great, Buck,” Becca says, shoving a couple of papers into his hand. “You’ll be working with Steve.” 

“Great,” Bucky says, hoping he’ll come out of this okay. “Great.” 


	3. Chapter 3

“So first I like to check in at the cafe,” Steve says, once Bucky has his coat on and is appropriately bundled to hit the sidewalks. “Start with a coffee.”

“Of course,” Bucky says, and they fall in step to the Christmas Cafe, known the other eleven months of the year as Crisleys. For December, it reinvents itself to serve drinks in alternating red-and-green cups. 

Steve pays for them, waving off Bucky’s protest with claims of Bucky doing him this favour, and he can take care of it. It isn’t convincing, but Steve also steps in front of him at the cash so it’s easy enough to let him do it. 

With coffee in hand, they head back onto the main street for the first stop on whatever list Steve has in his head. 

It’s a tailor next door, with lights and decorations already in the window. In the middle of the store is a vibrant red three-piece suit, built up on a pedestal of wrapped boxes and shoes with bows on them. A Scrabble-letter ornament spells out merry, hanging from the mannequin’s breast pocket. 

“Fashion Santa,” Steve tells him, skirting the display to approach the back of the shop where a well-dressed man stands behind the dark wood counter. He’s wearing suspenders with a crisp white shirt, not exactly good looking but still striking. 

“Morning,” Steve says, raising his red cup in greeting. 

“It’s the holiday police,” the man says. “And you brought backup? Not cool.” 

“Just checking to see if you needed anything, it looks good,” Steve says. 

Bucky recognizes the guy in the suspenders as Clint Barton. The last time they’d seen each other hadn’t been at a good time in Bucky’s life, one where he’d come home after college, freshly dumped and without job prospects. Barton had been dealing with the dissolution of his marriage, then, and the two of them had reluctantly fallen in for a few months of shared misery. 

“Bucky Barnes,” Clint says, giving him a nod. “Doing well?” 

“Can’t complain,” Bucky says. “You?”

“Always,” Clint says, like they’d had fun times together, not nights that usually left one or the both of them falling into a pile of garbage behind Evergreen’s one bar every night. 

“Nice place,” Bucky says. 

“So everything still good? No lights burned out or anything?” Steve asks. 

“I’m good,” Clint says. “Hey, you’re coming to the parade, right?” 

“Yeah, the lights thing,” Bucky says, laughing when Steve elbows him. “I’ve been told I can’t miss it.” 

“You really can’t,” Clint says. “Fingers crossed we take first prize this year.” 

“Wait until you see my mom’s,” Steve says seriously, and laughs when Clint tells them to get out. 

“So that’s it?” Bucky asks him, when they’re back out on the sidewalk. “Checking in?” 

“Most of them are set up by now,” Steve says. “A few can use a helping hand, might need an idea or two. But now that more people are decorating their stores themselves, they’ve gotten more competitive.” 

“I can see that,” Bucky says, and follows Steve into their next stop. 

It’s the hardware store, properly decorated with screwdrivers, wrenches and hammers on a Christmas tree made up of two-by-fours and other lumber. Steve suggested using flexible measuring tapes as garland, he tells Bucky as they check it out, just like he had the idea for a rotating tree-shaped arrangement at the bakery filled with the special of the day. Today is hand pies, which Steve says is one of his favourites. 

“You must love Christmas,” Bucky says as they wait for the bakery to wrap up Steve’s purchases. 

“I really do,” Steve says. “It used to be the only time I’d see my mom, right, and now people here are just happy.” 

Bucky tips his head in acknowledgement, but silently disagrees with the happiness assessment. It isn’t the case everywhere, even right here. “Or maybe you just like decorations.” 

“That’s part of it, but it’s also being together,” Steve says. “We make a point of giving everyone an opportunity to come together in town, so even if you’re by yourself, you have a choice.” 

“That’s nice,” Bucky says, and asks Steve where he can get rid of his cup to change the subject.

They make it to their final decoration stop: Steve’s mom Sarah’s bookstore. She’s been here a long time, enough that people can call it Sarah’s and be understood. 

Bucky had spent a lot of time here when he was in his early twenties, figuring out what he wanted to do next with his life and reading too many books for free. She’d always talked about Steve in a way that made Bucky feel like he knew him, even before Steve moved. Then their paths crossed only briefly — and disastrously — inside the diner, and things didn’t really go the way Bucky wanted. 

“Finally,” Sarah says when they come in, giving Steve a hug and then Bucky. 

Bucky stiffens for a moment, wondering if Steve’s mom had put things together and is about to mistake hanging out for something else. 

“I’ve been waiting all morning for these,” Sarah says, swooping the bakery box out of Steve’s hand and onto the counter. 

“I’m blaming Bucky,” Steve says, and steps out of the way when Bucky goes to elbow him. “Had to show him the route for the parade of lights.”

“Oh, you better take one of these, then,” Sarah says, offering the box to Bucky. “He’s a Christmas tyrant.”

“I wouldn’t disagree,” Bucky says, before taking a bite. “He’s putting me to work here too.”

“Saving the best for last, I hope,” Sarah says, and laughs when Steve goes to reassure her. 

“Eyes of artists, I promise,” Steve says. “If you want to go run book club, we can handle it up here. We’ll need to close down the store while we do this anyway.”

“Better be worth it, Steve,” Sarah mock-threatens, and scoops up the rest of hand pies before going to the alcove in the back for the store’s book club. 

“Didn’t even leave me one,” Steve says but waves it off when Bucky offers his. 

“No, seriously, take half,” Bucky says, holding it out until Steve finally takes the other side to rip it in two. Steve lifts it in thanks, smiling, and Bucky tells himself to settle down. 

Steve outlines his idea of a tree built of books in the middle of the store, fairy lights and gold bookmarks hung inside the tree to draw the eye. 

Bucky’s tasked with gathering appropriately sized and coloured books from the shelves while Steve clears an area near the entrance for the installation. Once they start building it goes quickly, Steve placing books for the foundation first and then the higher levels. Bucky starts to anticipate what Steve wants for colour or size before he asks, until Steve is placing the final book and the wire star _objet_ as the topper. 

“Looks good?” Steve asks him, and Bucky has to agree. 

They both step back to fully take it in. It is kind of impressive, the gold and green books making it look festive. It’s kind of a shame it’s only temporary. 

“Someone’s going to see this and love it,” Steve says. “Beyond us and my mom.”

“Making it all worth it,” Bucky says, thinking of all the hours Steve must put in to get stores Christmas-ed for a couple of days of enjoyment. It might come out more sarcastic than he meant it to. 

Steve looks at him, frowning. “You’re not happy, are you.”

“I’m alright,” Bucky says. He’s enjoying his time with Steve, fussing with the arrangement of books to create a Christmas tree in the middle of the bookstore. “Not how I expected to be spending a Thursday, but this is fun.” 

“No, in general,” Steve says. “Being here, coming home. 

“Just questioning my life choices,” Bucky says, aiming for light but knowing he’s short. 

“No, don’t do that,” Steve says. “If you want me to butt out, mind my own business, say that, but don’t make your life out to be a joke. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, then,” Bucky says, taking the out. 

“Okay,” Steve says, and changes the subject. 

Sarah is appropriately enthusiastic about the book tree when she’s done with book club, as are the book club patrons — one of which is Bucky’s mom. They point to titles they know or want to read, and even Bucky will admit to feeling some satisfaction over the reception their efforts receive. 

They end up staying well past the tree appreciation, until Sarah closes the store and shoos them out with a firm thanks but no to offers of help. 

Steve insists on driving Bucky back to his parents’ house. They get into Steve’s truck and sit in silence while Steve waits for the windshield to adjust to their sudden body heat and defog. 

“I should be happy,” Bucky says into the warming air, surprising himself. “Right? I’m at home, parents love me, sister missed me.” He leaves off the part about enjoying Steve’s company. 

“But,” Steve says. 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. 

“The stupidest part is I wasn't even sure I liked the life I was leaving,” Steve says. “When I came here. I wanted to help my mom, but at the same time, I didn't know for certain.”

“My old life rejected me,” Bucky says. “I lost my job.” 

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not — not sure I am,” Bucky says. “I went into photojournalism to tell stories, but I wasn't even doing that anymore. I’d take pages of notes that turned into instagram captions, if they weren’t replaced with a quote from a meme.”

“There’s more than one place to tell stories,” Steve says. “Your work’s good enough to go anywhere.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says with a soft snort of defeatism. “But there’s nowhere left for it to go. Technically, my division was eliminated. News websites don’t make money, and anyone with a phone can get the shot.” 

“Feel free to tell me I'm missing the point,” Steve says. “But if you aren’t enjoying it, and you don’t have to do it, then why do it? Tell your stories on your own or do something else.”

“Like it’s that easy,” Bucky says, and goes to look at the time on his phone. 

“No,” Steve says, putting a hand out to stop him. “I mean it. I was an investment banker before. If you told me I'd be flying airplanes and giving people decorating tips? I would’ve laughed in your face.”

Bucky’s mouth twists, halfway between a smile and annoyance. “So you’re saying there’s hope.”

“There’s possibility,” Steve corrects, shifting the truck into reverse out of the parking spot. “If you want it.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. 

“Just promise you won’t go back to the diner,” Steve says with a laugh. “You’re an awful server.”

* * *

At the diner the next day, Bucky waves off his dad’s offer to run the grill and helps Becca on the floor instead. It’s busier, keeping him out of his head and focused on balancing the bus tub on one hip and not knocking over any glassware. 

After the breakfast rush, Bucky sits with Becca to look over the progress for the parade. Everything has a check to say it’s decorated and taken care of, beyond needing a final walkthrough.

“So it’s one and done,” Bucky says, shifting one of the papers aside to look more closely at the rules for the cookie contest.

“No, the parade is the opening,” she says. “We get a lot of tourists in for that and then the days after. Evergreen will be bumping.”

“Don’t say that,” Bucky says. “We’re too old.” 

“You are,” Becca says, and then makes a point of narrating her social media post while she’s creating it. “A ton of people follow my account.” 

“I’m sure they do,” Bucky sys, and scratches off influencer form the mental list he’s been working on since talking to Steve the night before. He doesn’t even get service around here, it’d be a terrible idea. 

“So what’s going on,” Becca asks, prodding his shin with her foot under the table.

“What are you talking about?” Bucky stalls, wondering if she knows about his getting let go. But Steve wouldn’t have said anything, he knows that. 

“You haven’t been this happy in a while. You’re all glowy and stuff.” She gestures to her own face, then pretends to gag. 

“Just the fresh air.” Or, it could be something beyond leaving the city and its unique pattern of stress behind. Bucky isn’t sure. 

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were in love,” Becca says, and turns back to her route. “Should I print these out or just post them along the way?”

“I really don’t have an opinion,” Bucky says, and gets up to think about whether he is in fact falling in love with Steve Rogers.

With the diner slow, he can step out for a walk up the street without guilt. He gets greeted by name a few times, which isn’t unexpected but still nice. 

Bucky has to be honest with himself and admit he missed this, that the feeling of always being in the way wears on him. Plus, nobody ever passed him an extra cookie just because they haven’t seen him in a while. 

He comes up to Steve and Sam coming out of the cafe together, carrying trays of coffees. 

“Hi,” Steve says. 

Sam sticks his hand out, waiting until Bucky slides the rest of his cookie in his mouth to free up his hand to shake. 

“I’m Sam, Steve and I run the airport together,” Sam says. “Don’t think we officially met the other day.” 

“No,” Bucky says. “That was kind of a blur.” 

“Can’t blame a guy for wanting to get ahead of the storm,” Sam says. 

“It’s a fact of winter,” Steve protests, trying to stack the trays in his hands and then giving up. 

“I still haven’t forgiven Steve for picking Indiana over somewhere warm, but we haven’t been best friends for so long without an argument or two.” Sam winks at Bucky when he says friends. 

“We’re going to do the walkthrough,” Steve says, lifting one of the coffee trays. “Did you want to come along?’ 

“I actually have to go,” Sam says, and offers his tray of coffee to Bucky. “If you want to step in, that would be great.” 

“Uh, okay,” Bucky says, and takes the tray. 

“If you want,” Steve says. “If you have something to do, it’s okay.” 

“No, sure, it’s fine,” Bucky says, playing it cool. 

“Well we can go, Steve says, nodding to Sam when he heads in the opposite direction. 

“Alright,” Bucky says and falls into step beside him. They’re quiet for a minute, Steve letting his elbow knock into Bucky’s like he’s working up to something.

“So I was out of line,” Steve says. “I can’t tell you what to do with your life.” 

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, and when they step into the first business he hopes Steve will drop it. But Steve just drops off a coffee from Bucky’s tray, does a check and they’re back on the street and on the subject. 

“No, really, I shouldn’t have been pushing,” Steve says. “Your situation is different than mine was, and you’re the only one who can figure out what you want to do.” 

“I know that,” Bucky says, is going to add that he doesn’t mind Steve pushing, but his phone starts ringing before he can. 

“Shit,” Bucky says instead, looking for a place to set down the tray before balancing it on top of one of the ones Steve’s holding. 

He pulls his phone out to see an unfamiliar number, LA area code. 

“I should get this,” he tells Steve, who takes a few steps back to give him privacy. 

“Hi, James?” 

“Yes,” Bucky says, looking at Steve trying not to look at him. 

“This is ben from the Breitbart offices, I’m calling about your application,” the man on the other side says. 

“My application,” Bucky repeats, slowly. He had sent a couple of inquiry messages out on LinkedIn while waiting for his flight out of JFK, but he would never have sent anything to Breitbart. 

Steve’s giving him a look, obviously still in earshot. 

Bucky stays where he is, half-gazing into Steve’s eyes as he tries to parse what Ben from Breitbart is telling him. 

“Well, we heard you were available. I emailed you to get your starting date,” Ben says. 

“I haven’t been on my email much lately,” Bucky says. “But my starting date, I’m not —” 

“I’ll send it again,” Ben promises. “We have a place lined up for you in LA and three assignments already covering some protests. We need your eye.”

“LA,” Bucky echoes, wondering exactly when Ben from Breitbart is going to let him refuse. 

“Read your email, and let us know when you can be here!” Ben says brightly, and then hangs up. 

“What,” Bucky says to the dial tone. There’s no way in hell Bucky’s working for Breitbart, it doesn’t matter that print is dead. He’ll take family portraits before he works for the far right. 

“So, that sounded like good news,” Steve says, smiling tightly. “LA?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, glancing at his phone. He really should check his email.

“Sounds great for you,” Steve says, then winces. “Oh, shoot, I have to go meet Clint. Light emergency. Catch up later?” 

“Sure,” Bucky says, and watches Steve walk away.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky goes back to the diner empty-handed, worrying at Steve’s sudden departure as he clears and carts dirty dishes back to the kitchen, loads the dishwasher, returns with clean cutlery to set. 

“I don’t get it,” he says to Becca in between tables. “We were going to do the walkthrough, and then he makes an excuse and leaves.”

“Did he say anything?” Becca asks him, working on wiping down and dressing the tables he’s finished with for faster turnover. 

“About leaving? No,” Bucky says. He moves to the next table, stretching out the cramp in his hand from carrying the tub. “Just apologized for feeling he was pushing me, but I didn’t feel like he was doing anything other than making me think.” 

Becca makes a thoughtful noise. “It’s a busy time, he probably has things to do.” 

“I just don’t know what happened,” Bucky says. “I thought we were having fun hanging out.” 

“Honestly, Bucky?” Becca says, dropping her cloth and turning around to face him. “You sound like you’re in love with him.” 

“What?” Bucky says, and loses his grip on his tub so it clangs back to the table. He shoots her a look, then goes to right the tipped glassware. “How did you figure that out?” 

Becca holds a serious face for four long seconds before she cracks, laughing. “Oh, thank you for finally admitting it.” 

“Screw off,” Bucky says, 

“Because now I can say that he’s in love with you too.” Becca starts to load Bucky’s tub up with the next table’s dirty cutlery. “Why do you think he’s around so much?” 

They must both be idiots not to realize, unless Steve had and thought Bucky didn’t. 

Bucky swallows, looking down at the full tub of dishes. He’s got to talk to Steve, clear up whatever had him turn awkward before leaving. 

“Guess this means you’re staying,” Becca says. 

* * *

Bucky goes to find Steve. For a town the size of Evergreen, it’s harder than he thought. He stops by Clint’s first, but there’s no sign of him despite the earlier emergency. Clint is busy with a customer, so Bucky justs lifts a hand in greeting and heads over to the bakery and then the shoe store where he turns up empty. 

Steve’s truck isn’t parked along the street either, and with the downtown core busier as a whole with the influx of tourists for the parade, it’s harder to ask questions. 

He finally heads to Sarah’s, where she spares a moment between ringing up purchases to tell Bucky Steve had been in earlier for a final check but was probably helping prep for the parade by now. 

Back on the sidewalk, Bucky sighs. He’s been running in circles since he left the diner, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to find Steve before the night’s events. Figuring he might as well enjoy himself, he heads over to where the cookie contest is about to start. 

Becca’s up on stage running the show, where each baker and cookie entry are announced before samples are passed out to the audience. Her face is glowing, driving the crowd’s cheers louder with each new entry. 

It makes his fingers itch for his camera for the first time since he got home, missing the ability to capture this moment of magic. There’s always a purpose to photos, but he’s selfish here in wanting to get the shot for him, of a sister completely at home with what she’s created. 

The crowd really gets into it, brandishing their cookie bingo cards to mark their progress. Apparently there’s a reward — a trophy? more cookies? — for successfully sampling at least five in a row. Bucky can’t quite let himself sink into it, satisfying himself instead with being part of the crowd. 

It works, right until someone hands him a red envelope instead of the next cookie entry. It has his name in block print on the outside. Inside is a glittery Christmas card. Bemused, Bucky opens it up to see it telling him to check around the back of the stage. It’s signed Santa. 

Looking up, Bucky can’t quite see where it came from. There’s been no sign of Santa yet tonight, even though the posters said he’d be here for a preview before Christmas Eve. 

Bucky slides the card into his coat pocket, making his way through the crowd to the back of the stage. His camera bag is waiting, tucked into the corner of the stage. On the top is another note addressed to him, saying  _ Bucky, I think you’d want this.  _ This one’s signed just S, which could be Santa again, or someone else. 

Taking the camera, he heads back into the crowds with renewed purpose. It’s easier to lose track of time behind the lens, and he’s startled when people suddenly start cheering for Santa’s arrival on a classic green pickup. 

Everyone crowds down at one end of Main, waiting as the stores shut down their operating one by one until the streets are dark. 

The pickup’s decked out in Christmas lights, Santa standing in the back with a figure dressed like a giant cookie. It’s festive but incredibly weird at the same time. 

Bucky raises the camera to capture the moment, not minding how many people watch him use his stump to brace it. These are the people that knew him before and after, but he can’t feel anything from them but gladness that he’s finally come home. 

The truck honks twice as it makes its way slowly through the crowd to the sounds of cheering children. As the truck passes slowly, each store gets the signal to light up to put their decorations on display. 

It’s just a guess, but Bucky figures Steve’s had input into every single Christmas tree and holiday arrangement people are now oohing and ahhing over. 

It doesn’t take too long before the pickup has made it down the entire street and cast it in a warm glow from the string lights and candles used in the decorations. By the time it disappears around a corner with Santa and the cookie waving goodbye, store owners are opening their doors to the milling crowds. From the looks of it, they’re doing fairly good business. 

Bucky slides his lens cap back on and tucks his camera under his coat, wondering if he’ll be able to find Steve now that the crowd’s thinning out. 

He turns to find his way blocked by Santa, off the truck and with a few stray kids in his wake. 

“Ho ho ho,” Santa says. “What are you looking for for Christmas?” 

Bucky gives him a look. Santa’s deep voice is familiar, but Bucky isn’t going to ruin the charade. 

“Think I already got it,” Bucky says.

“Maybe a job,” Santa says. He clears his throat, still keeping up the holly jolly. “Anything you want, since you’re on the nice list.”

“Seriously,” Bucky says flatly. He can’t believe this goober is who he’s fallen in love with. “Anything I want?” 

“Ho ho ho,” Santa says, sounding nervous. 

“ Lose the beard and you’ll find out,” Bucky tells Santa, and goes to put his camera away behind the stage. Standing there waiting makes him feel vulnerable, like he’s showing his hand. Instead, he takes a seat on the edge of the stage, swinging his legs in a move that’s more casual than he actually feels. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long before someone approaches the back of the stage. Bucky just hopes it isn’t Santa. 

It’s Steve, pulling the curtain back with a sheepish expression. He’s lost the beard and the hat and the fake belly, thankfully, but is still wearing the oversized red pants with suspenders. 

Bucky may be into that. He clears his throat, waiting until Steve is in front of him, sliding his thumbs into the suspenders in a move designed to be as careless as Bucky’s own swinging feet. 

“Listen,” Bucky says, not letting himself get distracted by Steve’s messy hair or rosy cheeks. “I have to—”

“No, wait,” Steve says, holding out a hand to interrupt him. “Let me say this. It’s none of my business if you’re moving to LA for work. I just have to tell you that I hope you don’t.”

“I’m not,” Bucky says. 

“Because—you’re not,” Steve repeats. He takes a step back, looking confused. “But the job—”

“That’s not—I’m not taking it,” Bucky says. “It’s not who I want to be anymore. Also, I may not know what I want to do now, but I know it’s not that.” 

“Okay, good,” Steve says, then flushes, his already-pink cheeks going red. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to figure it out,” Bucky says, and stands up to step into Steve’s space and grab his hand. “But the one thing I know? I know I want you there with me.” 

“Finally,” Steve says, bending his head and leaning in to kiss Bucky, right on the mouth. It feels like a promise. “Thank you, I kept wanting to tell you be with me. To choose me.” 

“Okay,” Bucky says. “I can do that.” 


End file.
